


French Braid

by Endangered_Slug



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Braids, F/M, Rumbelle Christmas in July, The Floofening, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 21:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7547362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endangered_Slug/pseuds/Endangered_Slug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from Ashadeofpemberley: Emma is pregnant with a little girl and Bae is trying to learn how to braid hair. He practices on everyone who has even slightly long hair and will sit still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't sign up for the RCIJ this year because I'll be out of town, but I wanted to write _something_ for it.

 

It was three o’clock on a Saturday and Mr. Gold was sitting on a stool in his kitchen, a cellphone held in one hand and his head being yanked back every so often by his son.

“Can you hold it up higher, Pop? I can’t see,” Neal muttered around a rubber band dangling from his lips.

The long-suffering sigh was loud, but he held it up, the video paused at a particularly difficult maneuver. His head was jerked to the left, then the right and there was one strand that was pulled so tight at the root that his eyes watered.

“She’s not even born yet,” he said, for the thirtieth time.

“I know, Pop,” Neal said with audibly fading patience.

“You know you didn’t even really grow hair until you were three.”

“I know, Pop.”

“Nothing but fuzz for years,” he said hissing through teeth as his head was yanked back again. “Thought you’d never get hair.”

“I _know_ , Pop!”

“She might not even like braids,” he grumbled. His arm was beginning to arche from holding the phone up so long and he wished his son would just get over this whim already. There was plenty of time to learn new things. Though, after a moment’s reflection, he supposed it was a good thing Neal wanted to learn how to braid hair rather than, say, learn how to change a diaper. He loved his son, but there were some lines that couldn’t be crossed.

“Be quiet, I’m almost done.”

Gold could practically hear Neal roll his eyes at him. Another heavy sigh, his eyes closed and his mouth gritted against the incessant jerking, he tried to think of anything to keep his mind off his son’s new hobby. Anything. The accounts. The property he was thinking of buying across town. …His neighbor and her impossibly blue eyes and bright smiles that made her cheeks dimple and her propensity to bring him baked goods and flowers from her garden. Who would come over sometimes to talk and drink tea and lend him a book in which he expressed an interest. They had dinner once, right there at his kitchen table. He made a chicken alfredo and she brought over a lemon cake that melted on his tongue. It was a wonderful evening and one he hoped to repeat in the near future.

He had a mild crush on her; he fully admitted it. It was foolish for a man his age, he knew that, but it was impossible to stop once it had begun. He didn’t even try to fight it, simply enjoyed her company whenever she popped by. Basking in her glowing warmth and tender soul.

Belle had hair — a lot of it — the color of chestnuts and the kind of loose curls that made a man want to bury his nose into it. It looked soft. Braidable. Maybe he should have called her over as a volunteer. He huffed and shook his head at the notion of walking up to her door and asking to borrow her for the afternoon. Just a small impromptu practicing session. Nothing alarming. Nothing weird.

His son’s hands gripped his hair tightly. “Stop moving, you’re messing me up,” Neal groused. “Come on. You said it was fine.”

“That was before I knew you were going to take forever,” Gold retorted, lifting his eyes to stare at a lone strand of hair that had escaped and was dangling over his forehead, just within his vision.

“Quiet.”

At Neal’s direction, Gold pressed play on the YouTube video, letting it play to the end where the woman on the screen showed the finished result, a pretty braid starting from the forehead and neatly woven in from the sides until it ended in a queue down her back. 

“There you are! Just keep practicing and you’ll have it in no time!” she told them, smiling brightly. “And if you want to know how I achieved my smokey eyes, click here for the tutorial!”

A link appeared in the upper corner of the screen and Gold prayed that Neal would be satisfied with learning how to do hair and leave makeup to his wife.

“Why aren’t you using Emma’s hair?” he asked once more.

“I told you, Pop. I want it to be a surprise.” He grabbed the phone from him to rewind the video ignoring the next sigh that emerged from his father. “Something’s not right,” he mumbled to himself.

“What’s that?” Gold said, turning around to look at his son. It made that one strand pull even more and he stuck a finger into his hair to scratch at it, not even caring any more if it came out just so long as it stopped hurting.

A lilting voice came through the screen door just then, sending Gold’s heart plummeting down to his toes before being bounced back up where it lodged in his throat, beating erratically.

“Hello? Mr. Gold? I made brow—”

The screen door opened, and a slim figure stood in the doorway, blocking the light, but he knew who it was. There was only one person other than his son who was allowed to come in without asking. Belle French. Gold would have jumped off the stool, but Neal had the tail of his hair in his grip, holding him steady as if he knew he would bolt at the first chance he got and now here he was, stuck in his own kitchen while his beautiful and engaging and incredibly nice neighbor came to a halting stop in front of them, a small plate of something that smelled of warm chocolate in her dainty hands and a brilliant smile on her face that very slowly faded into confusion at the sight of the two of them.

“…nies,” she finished.

She stared at them, her eyes wide before a coughing laugh escaped her pink lips. She pressed them together in an effort to keep from grinning. She utterly and completely failed.

“Um, hello,” she said when she gained her composure, her eyes wandering over his face.

“Miss French,” Gold said as calmly as possible, his insides churning. “Have you met my son, Neal?”

Her eyes went from him to his son standing behind him, a round brush in one hand and the phone in the other. “No, I haven’t. Um… Hi,” she said, awkwardly, raising her hand in a short wave. “I’m interrupting… something and I should probably go. Sorry.” She turned back around slowly as if on a disk.

Neal, bless his ever-loving heart, stopped her in her tracks and Gold mentally wrote him out of his will for it, then rewrote him back in, but with the caveat that he never, ever speaks of this day to anyone. Or else. “Wait! Stay. I could use you.”

Belle turned her head, the rest of her body pivoting after, her eyes narrowed but curious and Gold knew that she was hooked. And would stay. And witness his further humiliation. Neal was back out of the will and his granddaughter would inherit everything. Fitting, really. He drew in a sharp breath as Belle’s eyes roamed over him once more, a fleeting glance accompanied by another lip-pressing smile. And, while he appreciated the effort, he would have loved it if she had just get the questions out of the way. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation after all.

“ _Use_ me? How?” she asked, a lovely eyebrow arched up in either curiosity or pique. Or both.

“I’m having a girl!” Neal proudly told her.

She tilted her head, clearly not understanding him. “You’re having a girl do what?”

Neal laughed then, that booming, carefree laugh that Gold loved to hear. He would do anything for that laugh, which was one of the reasons why he was in this predicament in the first place.

“My wife is pregnant. We just found out we’re having a girl,” he told her proudly, which really explained nothing.

Gold cleared his throat and interrupted. “Neal wants to learn how to braid hair.“

The confused looked disappeared under a dawning understanding which was replaced with another amused glance at the top of his head. “But she’s not even born yet?” she clarified, dropping her eyes back to his with concerted effort.

“That’s what I told him,” Gold muttered, gripping the seat of his stool with both hands.

“Yeah, but…” Neal began, doubtfully.

“She might not even have a whole lot of hair at first,” Belle said, putting the plate down on the counter to move around him in a wide circle, surveying the damage in its entirety.

“Said that, too,” he reminded his son, glancing up at him with a smug expression that was instantly wiped off when Belle stood before him, her arms crossed and head tilted as she looked at him critically.

“Well, it’s a decent first try, but you have strands sticking out all over the place,” she said.

He did? Gold stiffened and stared straight ahead, which happened to be right at the dip at the bottom of her creamy throat, trying not to imaging what he must look like. A bird’s nest probably. He would never live it down. He would never be able to look at her again.

“Yeah, well,” Neal began. “I need more practise. And Pop was wiggling.”

“Was he?” she asked with a heart-stopping smile, her eyes wide and sparkling. “Well, I’ll be happy to help,” she said, brightly, looking once more at his son, taking those damnable blue eyes off of him and allowing him to breath again. She pushed Neal out of the way and stood in his spot.

Gold sighed once more, but this time in relief and he began to get off the stool to make way for Belle and her longer, more… touchable hair, but she pushed him back down, her hands gentle but firm on his shoulders.

“No, you stay put,” she whispered in his ear before she leaned back up, her fingers scratching channels into his hair, smoothing it out and sending tiny shocks down through his scalp and straight to… other places. Oh dear lord, he was a lost man.

“You have good hair,” she murmured, almost to herself.

He did? He hadn’t really thought of it before. Hair was hair. Well, he reconsidered, as a lock of Belle’s hair brushed against his cheekbone. Some hair was nicer than others.  
  


Neal snorted, but he heard the clacking sound of the phone being set on the counter. “He’s a primadonna about his hair,” he told her, clearly enjoying himself.

Gold almost turned around to glare at him, but Belle’s fingers were still entwined in his braid and he didn’t want to dislodge them. They might… pull — by accident of course, but he kept still nevertheless.

“Well,” she began, bringing her hands down to the rubber band, untwisting it carefully. “Let’s start from the beginning.” She tousled his hair with both hands, loosening the braid and it fell back around his face and shoulders once more. “Help yourself to the brownies, Neal. There should be plenty.” Then she began to stroke his head.

“These are real’ly good,” Neal said, his mouth stuffed full.

“Thanks,” she said, distracted by his hair. His good hair. “I’m perfecting my recipe.”

“You bake professionally?” his son asked.

“Not really. I just like to do it. Your dad is my taste tester,” she told him, proudly.

Neal coughed around the bite he was taking. “ _Pop_? _My_ dad. This guy?”

“Thanks a lot,” Gold grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child. He stared at the window in front of him, towards the clear blue sky, trying to keep his eyes open. Belle’s fingers were magic. No pulling or yanking at all. It was a torturous kind of heaven that he hoped would never end.

“Yeah,” she said, a bit miffed. “He has a very good tongue.” Her hands stilled against his scalp for a brief moment before they continued their gentle twisting motions. “I-I mean, his taste buds are very discerning. Uh, I can rely on him to tell me what’s missing in my baking.”

He did? Gold didn’t know that was why she kept coming over, but it all made sense now. She needed him to help her with her recipes and he needed her to… well, just _be_.

“Uh huh.”

Obviously Neal wasn’t convinced of his usefulness in Belle’s baking endeavors. Obviously the boy was out of his will again.

The conversation turned then, to the braid, with tips and instructions as she lifted sections of his hair at a time with a pinkie nail, the scratch of it merely a gentle pressure against his scalp. Gold didn’t pay attention to the words, just the cadence of her voice and how it spoke low near his ear. Her questing fingers in his hair, her sweet voice dancing in the air, and the subtle aroma of her perfume enveloping him was such an oddly sensual experience. Every so often a soft part of her would brush against him, adding to his pleasure, and he found himself being lulled into a deeply relaxed state just this side of sleep as if her hands were magic.

Too soon, she was finished and Gold was suddenly alert as her hands left his hair. They stood behind him, going over what she did and how Neal could improve his skills. Gold ignored them, counting backwards from a thousand to keep his thoughts correct and his mind from dwelling on the fact that he had a good _tongue_. That way lay danger.

“Have you ever heard of a fishtail braid?” Belle asked suddenly, turning her head towards Neal.

Gold could hear the humor in her voice, but also something a bit deeper, something that spoke to him. He closed his eyes and prepared himself for another agonizingly tactile session under Belle’s ministrations. He couldn’t wait.

As Belle’s fingers began to once more undo the French braid he mentally rewrote his will. Neal was back in, but, this time, so was Belle. Just as long as she kept playing with his hair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ask: Did French Braid!Rumbelle ever get together? Belle wasn't being very subtle. :P Rumple had to have caught on sooner or later.

“So do you always do what Neal asks you to do,” Belle asked, turning her head slightly.

Gold hissed at her, straightening her head with a gentle nudge of his hand before his quick fingers deftly returned to their braiding. 

“Within reason,” he said, absently, enjoying the way her curls wrapped around his fingers as if they wanted his hands in her hair at all times. Fine by him. Might make work a bit awkward though. 

“What’s reason, then?”

He sucked in a deep breath, picking a memory. “One time, when the lad was about four, he went out with a bucket of chalk and decorated one of my Adirondack chairs. All over, every square millimeter was covered. He was so proud of himself. Came right in with that big smile of his and said he made my throne. Well, I had no idea what he was talking about, but I followed him out to the deck and was presented with that skittle-shaded monstrosity—”

“American skittles or the real kind,” Belle interrupted.

“The American. Very pastel and the same flavor basically.”

They both gave tiny shudders at the reminder of the candy.

“He expected me to sit in it.”

“But you were wearing a suit.”

“Of course I was. I’m always wearing a suit.”

“You’re not wearing one now.”

“Well, now’s a special occasion,” he retorted, letting the fond smile he was wearing shine through his speech. “Anyway, I did the only thing I could do when faced with a child’s proud, earnest face.”

“You sat in that chair,” she said, tremulously.

“I sat in that chair,” he agreed. “For an hour.”

Belle didn’t even stifle her giggles. She dropped her head, her shoulders shaking, his fingers losing their grip on the locks he was nearly done braiding. 

“It was before digital cameras so, no, there are no pictures,” he told her, leaning down to whisper into her ear.

She turned her head, brushing her lips against the tip of his nose. “That’s not a problem. I know someone who’s about to have a baby and now I know exactly what to get her for her fourth birthday.”


End file.
